It is easy to observe that in the vast majority of Hollywood films today, there are many, many shots used to complete a scene and the overall film. In particular, action films are very fast cut to help accentuate the pace of the film and actions of the characters. Over the years, we as an audience have gotten used to these kinds of films and tend to overlook just how many cuts are involved in the final cut of the movie. Next time you watch a film, take note of this and you will probably be surprised.

However, films did not always use to be this fast cut. Throughout film history, there has been a steady progression from longer shots to quick cuts. In 1930 (and throughout the Classical Hollywood period), the average shot length was about 12 seconds. About 85 years later, the average shot length has been reduced to only 2.5 seconds, a fraction of the time from 1930. One possible reason for this shift is an ever- decreasing attention span from viewers. Every time a new shot is presented (or whenever the camera cuts) the audience is presented with something new and has to adjust to the new position or arrangement of the scene. This tends to keep them more interested. Longer shots, on the other hand, can cause viewers’ minds to wander as they maintain a single “view” (Wired).

This can work both ways. Longer shots can cause viewers to become bored, but interestingly they can also have the complete opposite effect. It is important to note that long shots are the most natural type of shot in film—we as humans experience life all through one shot. We cannot cut to a different place or position instantaneously like in a film. This was one reason (in addition to cameras only being able to hold a certain amount of film) that the earliest films in cinema were a single shot. It was not until several years after the birth of cinema that cutting became a norm in film. The long shot, though it has a tendency to be boring for viewing, can also be equated with not blinking. The audience is fixated on what is onscreen and is not allowed to look away. In this respect, the long shot maintains viewers’ attention and has a greater impact on them than the conventional film today.

Though fast cutting is indeed the convention of modern films, there are a few examples of films that have heavily (and successfully) utilized long shots. Two recent examples include Gravity (Cuarón, 2013) and Birdman (Iñárritu, 2014), both of which had the same cinematographer (Emmanuel Lubezki). Gravity opens with a 17 minute shot and has an average shot length of 46 seconds throughout the film (Screenrant). Birdman, the Academy Award winner for Best Picture at this year’s Oscars, is edited to look like the entire film is one single take. Ultimately, there are only 16 visible cuts in the film (IMDB). The film took after a similar aesthetic used by Alfred Hitchcock in Rope (1948). In that film, Hitchcock (who was limited to 10 minutes for a take due to the amount of film the camera held) used methods such putting the camera to the back of a character and then cutting, maintaining the illusion that it is the same shot.

Birdman (Iñárritu, 2014) is shot and edited to look like the entire film is one long shot, when in reality it is composed of several shots.

Like Birdman, Hitchock shot Rope (1948) to look like it was one continuous shot. He hid the cuts by having something dark (like a character's back) move in front of the camera.

So long shots have the power to mentally drain audiences or stimulate them. I personally enjoy watching a film that uses long shots, as it breaks the conventions of today’s movies and holds my attention better. Have you watched any films that utilize long shots? Do you find them laborious or stimulating to watch? Comment your thoughts below!WORKS CITEDIMDB. 2015. 16 Apr. 2015. <http://www.imdb.com>.

Hugo reflects on how living in a world of machines drives us to find our own personal purpose and place in the world.

Written by John Snyder

Although it is not what would be typically classified as science fiction, Martin Scorsese’s 2011 film Hugo uses a machine as its central metaphor to convey themes very intimate to humanity. Hugo Cabret (Asa Butterfield) is the protagonist, whose orphaned life is analogous to the dismantled automaton he is trying to repair. He lives behind the walls of a train station, which are alive with the mechanical motion of spinning gears, swinging pendulums and the ceaseless ticking of clocks. It is a stunning visual and aural effect that captures the ceaseless motion of his world.

The automaton on which he is working is the last relic of the life he lived before his father (Jude Law) died. It is broken, but Hugo and his father had almost fixed it—the only piece remaining was a heart shaped key. Similarly, Hugo has been broken by the years, and is missing the essential piece of his life that was his father. The movie does not spiral into an existentialist lament of being broken with no hope of healing, however. In fact, the story seems to oppose its modernist setting when Hugo miraculously finds the missing piece of his automaton in the possession of his new friend Isabella (Chloë Grace Moretz). And to top it off, Isabella herself fits into the place of the missing piece in Hugo’s life. Although one character, after having lost all hope for humanity during the Great War, tells Hugo bitterly that “happy endings only happen in the movies”, Hugo’s own experience proves him wrong. Of course, Hugo is a movie itself, and one packed with meta-criticism and film history at that. But the character of Hugo is a very big appreciator of movies, and of their happy endings too, and in this particular story his hope is rewarded.

Fueling his hope is a belief that he shared with Isabella, while looking over the streetscape of Paris.

“I'd imagine the whole world was one big machine. Machines never come with any extra parts, you know. They always come with the exact amount they need. So I figured, if the entire world was one big machine, I couldn't be an extra part. I had to be here for some reason.”

He observes that everything has a purpose, even machines. When you think about it, machines pretty much by definition have a purpose, as the act of making them requires the maker to dedicate both volition and energy to its making; so even if that purpose is to please the maker by its creation, or to express something of the maker’s will or emotional state, it is very hard to argue that machines do not have purpose (even if their purpose is deemed outmoded, or their brokenness renders them unable to fulfill their purpose). This belief makes Hugo feel very sad about broken machines, because “they can’t do what they’re meant to do” and consequently he tries to fix them. This metaphor extends to humanity in the form of Georges Méliès (Ben Kingsley) the disillusioned and “broken” filmmaker of whom Hugo and Isabella make it their mission to fix.

The machine inside juxtaposed with the machine outside

﻿Modernism﻿ and the industrial age are associated with the existentialist belief that there is no inherent meaning for our lives apart from the development of technology contributing to socio-evolutionary progress (or, "what we make of it"). However, Hugo, which takes place in this context, uses the machine, long held as a symbol of that time period and its prevailing philosophy, as a way to express the meaning and purpose of individual human lives and the collective purpose that each serves in relation to one another.

Who do you think of when you hear the term “Method acting?" What does the term, method acting even mean? In this article, we will briefly explore the origins of method acting and then look at its positive and negative attributes in the world of film today.

The origins of method acting end up going back to before the origin of cinema itself. It all arose from the teachings and ideas of Russian actor, producer, and theoretician Konstantin Stanislavsky. Ultimately, his goal was to develop a form of acting that was more realistic than the exaggerated, theatrical, and often melodramatic form that existed in the 19th century. The primary theory behind his new method was to have the actor recall previous emotions, memories, and experiences and integrate them into his performance. As a result, his method focused intensively on the psychological and emotional aspects of the character. For example, if a scene called for a character to experience fear, the actor would recall a particular experience in their life that they experienced real fear and then fully integrate their past reaction to that fear into the current scene (Brittanica).

The origins of method acting lie with Konstantin Stanislavsky, a Russian actor, producer, and theoretician who wanted to create a more realistic approach to acting rather than the exaggerated form that currently existed in the 19th century.

Over the years, Stanislavsky’s new ideas on acting were developed by several teachers, most significantly by director Lee Strasberg. In the 1930s, Strasberg co-founded Group Theater in New York City and coined the term “the method” to describe the new style of acting. His students included many of the iconic actors of the 20th century, including Paul Newman, Al Pacino, Dustin Hoffman, Marilyn Monroe, and Jack Nicholson, among many others (Brittanica and Gussow).

Since that time, method acting has evolved to the point where actors will transform themselves not only mentally and emotionally for a role, but physically as well. Some of today’s method actors include Christian Bale, Michael Caine, Daniel Day Lewis, Robert De Niro, Johnny Depp, Jared Leto, and Jack Nicholson. For several roles, each of these actors worked long hours getting into character and diving deep into the emotional and psychological states of their characters.

As mentioned in my last article, one of the most recent examples of method acting is Jake Gyllenhaal as “Lou Bloom” in Nightcrawler (Gilroy, 2013). In addition to losing 25 pounds to physically establish his creepy, sociopathic character, Gyllenhaal trained two months working with real-life nightcrawlers in order to get a firm grasp on the nature of the job. He also ended up meticulously memorizing the film like a play in order to produce his fast-spoken monologue scenes (IMDB).

Gyllenhaal lost 25 pounds to provide the "hungry coyote" look for Nightcrawler (left). In his latest film, he bulked up to play a boxer in Southpaw (Fuqua, 2015).

Without a doubt one of the most infamous examples of method acting was Heath Ledger in his portrayal of the Joker in The Dark Knight (Nolan, 2008). To prepare for the role, Ledger isolated himself in a motel room for about six weeks, diving deep into the twisted psychology of the character and developing the voice and every tic and mannerism of the joker. Ledger also designed the Joker makeup himself, reasoning that the Joker would also design the makeup himself in real life (IMDB). As a result of his extreme investigation into the character, Ledger developed insomnia and ended up having to take sleeping pills. Shortly after filming was complete, he was found dead in his apartment from an accidental overdose (CinemaBlend).

Ultimately, Ledger’s example showcased the gravity and power of method acting, as well as how it can be taken to dangerous levels. His Oscar-winning performance in the film was the result of his meticulous work in delving deep into the psychopathic character. The result was that audiences received an unforgettable performance that will last for ages. On the other hand, it was no doubt his devotion to the character that cost Ledger his life. Ledger’s method acting was not the original intention of Stanislavsky or Strasberg, but nevertheless this is what has become of the style and where it looks to be continually going in the future. Actors want to give us a strong and memorable performance, but somewhere along the way a line needs to be drawn. Currently this boundary is very blurry, and as a result the actor goes as far as he or she feels is needed in order to become the character.

Ledger became fully devoted to the character of the Joker as he lived a solitary life developing the Joker's every tic.

Method acting, although it is one style, has several different forms. Not many actors will go to the extremes or play a character as dark as Heath Ledger did in The Dark Knight. Nevertheless, it differs from regular acting in that instead of representing or portraying the character, the actor becomes the character as he or she calls on past experiences and emotions. In fact, “acting” itself starts to slip away as the individual becomes more and more like the character. Some people disagree with this style of acting and prefer the actor adhere more to how the character is written in the script and to think how the character’s past experiences would inform the current situation. This method, although certainly ideal, does not usually produce the best performance since the actor really is not that character. What do you think? Do you prefer to see method acting or do you like to see the other, more regular form of acting? Do you think the benefits of method acting outweigh the negatives? Comment your thoughts below!WORKS CITED

Last week we looked at three recent directors who had successful debuts in directing a feature film. One of these was Dan Gilroy, who directed Nightcrawler (2013). The neo-noir thriller centers on a driven young man (Jake Gyllenhaal) who is desperate to climb the ladder to success in the current tough economic climate. In this article we’ll take a closer look at the extremely relevant themes the film presents, as well as Gyllenhaal’s physical and emotional transformation into his power hungry character, Lou Bloom.

The film starts out with Lou Bloom at the very bottom of the metaphorical “ladder," as he is no more than a petty thief. However, after he comes across a car accident while driving home one night, he becomes inspired to become a “stringer," or an individual who films accidents and/or crimes and sells them to news stations. Through manipulating the scenes and crossing physical and moral boundaries, Bloom is able to gradually climb the ladder of success. Ultimately, his twisted character and psychology end up representing far more than one individual. Director Dan Gilroy notes, “Lou’s character came from an awareness that I have that a lot of people under thirty—tens of millions of people statistically I think either can’t find employment or employment that’s piecemeal and they can’t really sustain themselves and I was very intrigued with the idea of a character coming out of that desperation” (Nightcrawler Blu-ray). Therefore, Gyllenhaal’s character acts a symbol of the current generation Y that is out seeking employment in the tough economic world. Of course, many would not go to some of the extremes that Lou Bloom goes to in the film, but his mentality, coupled with his unnerving drive for success is something that is hard-wired into nearly every person trying to find a way to make a living.

Jake Gyllenhaal, who in recent years has become more of a “method” actor, transformed himself both physically and mentally to prepare for his dark character. He notes, “I prepped over two months losing weight, staying up at night and then sleeping during the day.” His co-star Rene Russo also notes, “He was starving to death—he wasn’t eating.” Gyllenhaal ended up losing about 25 pounds for the role, producing an eerie gaunt appearance. He based his power-hungry character off of a coyote, as he quotes, “Growing up in Los Angeles, I would see a coyote walking down the street and just stare at you. You know that it either just killed something or wanted to kill you. And I thought Lou was really a coyote.” His other co-star in the film, Riz Ahmed, notes, “He just immersed himself in it. He’s basically gone, ‘This character is desperate and hungry.’ And he was. And that brings a lot of very primal, instinctive, predatory desperation in you—it does” (Nightcrawler Blu-ray).

In addition to losing 25 pounds for the role, Jake Gyllenhaal prepped for two months by going out with real-life "nightcrawlers" to get a firm grasp on the nature of the job. In this mirror sequence pictured above, Gyllenhaal became so immersed in the scene that he grabbed and shattered the mirror, cutting his hand on the glass and having to go to the hospital (IMDB).

In the end, we are left to ponder on our own drive for success and ask how ours relates to or parallels Lou Boom’s. Whether we want to admit it or not, we all have a little bit of Lou Bloom in each of us—a sinful people who are naturally born to be envious and covet other people’s work and success. Each of us ends up setting our own moral boundaries, and it remains up to us if we cross these lines.

When I first heard Michael Keaton had a leading role in a indie film, my immediate reaction was one of excitement and suspicion. Growing up during the Batmania of the 1989 film, Michael Keaton was my hero. I collected and still collect merchandise regarding this adaptation, and I was able to see one of the Batmobiles used in the filming of the movie. This also revived the popularity of the 60’s TV show, which I also love, and in a promotional tour for the Burton film one of the 1966 Batmobiles used in the TV show, was being showcased in shopping malls which I actually was able to be inside as a kid. So needless to say this super hero had huge impact on my life, and Michael Keaton was Batman. Or so I thought until I watched Alejandro Gonzalez Innarritu’s Birdman: Or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) (2014). Birdman is a meditation on the contrasting ideals of what it means to be a successful actor, commercial fame and fortune, or the artistic integrity of a serious stage actor. The film is a meta-cinematic journey into the mind of Riggan Thompson (played by Keaton), who formerly starred in a series of films as the superhero Birdman. This role while bringing him fame and recognition has also forever typecast him as a blockbuster superhero incapable of doing serious stage acting.

Keaton as Batman in 1989

Living in the shadow of Birdman in the film.

Riggan attempts to escape this fate through putting on a serious Broadway play based on a Raymond Carver story in order to prove to him and the world he is capable of artistic stage work. Riggan’s character and his relationship with Birdman obviously mirrors Keaton’s own celebrity status as being typecast as Batman, and how this applies to his own struggle to be taken seriously as a dramatic actor. The fact that other actual superhero movies are mentioned such as Robert Downey in Iron Man (Favreau 2008), and the fact that Riggan last played Birdman in 1992, the very same year Batman Returns (Burton) was released further increase the meta-cinematic aspect. The play within a film idea helps illuminate this by integrating the backstage drama into the play, thus creating a seamless narrative. The film’s excellent score done by Antonio Sanchez, with tin creates the whirlwind chaos and anxiety of Riggan’s struggle to produce his play at all costs. Keaton is truly brilliant in his performance creating the depth of the character’s internal conflicts and how they affected his personal life. From the opening image of Riggan levitating in his dressing room to running through the streets of New York in his underwear, his vulnerability is constantly expressed throughout the film. The rest of the cast is stellar in their performances with the likes of Edward Norton as the method stage actor Mike, Naomi Watts as Lesley an aspiring Broadway actress, and Emma Stone as Riggan’s daughter Sam who is a recovering drug addict. The broken lives of these characters are all interwoven into Riggan’s life. In the constantly rehearsed scene in the play Riggan’s character is walking in on Mike's character in bed with his wife in the play Naomi Watts. While holding the gun to his head Riggan’s character pulls the trigger. Without revealing spoilers for those of you who have not seen the film, this scene is very significant, one in which parallels his desire for the life of Ed Norton’s character Mike, the method stage actor who is critically acclaimed. Keaton’s career post Beetlejuice (Burton, 1988) and Batman (Burton, 1989) while consistent in turning out great performances in various supporting roles, has been about trying to recapture the dignity of this past, in Birdman Michael Keaton like his counterpart Riggan Thompson has exceeded these expectations.

In the second half of the 20th century, as classic film noir became history, I often associate the rise of today’s neo-noir closely with the release of Roman Polanski’s Chinatown (1974). Even though it’s a neo-noir (created after the 1940s and 50s) Chinatown fulfills everything one would hope to see in a noir film. The film’s post WW2 Los Angeles looks warm and hardboiled, everything about it is captivating down to the young Jack Nicholson who blends right into the mise en scene as private detective J.J. Gittes. However, towards the beginning of the film, Gittes gets his nose split open by a knife. After this we spend nearly half the movie staring at a giant bandage covering Gittes’ nose and practically half his face, bothering us viewing the movie nearly as much as it bothers Gittes. By the 21st century, this tendency to visibly scar an anti-hero has become a common element in many neo-noir films. Why is that? Why would a character who relies on association with the audience be portrayed with scars and bruises in a less-than-ideal manner, and why is this a tendency for neo-noir? First, to answer this question it’s important to classify exactly what makes noir and neo-noir two sides of the same coin. Each involves an anti-hero who’s involved with bleak situations that often involve trouble with the law. In Fight Club (Fincher, 1999), the film’s narrator and his close friend Tyler Durden get involved with illegal activity and each have a set of scars at the end to show for it. At one point Tyler Durden starts fighting the narrator for no particular reason. When asked for a reason, Durden explains “How much can you know about yourself, you’ve never been in a fight? I don’t want to die without any scars.” Linked to the image of an injury is experience. Quint and Hooper even make a competition of it in Jaws (Spielberg, 1975) as they compare scars to see who’s tougher. Every neo-noir antihero is going to say that they’ve seen a lot, and they’ll wear the scars as a badge of the hard-boiled to show it. Exterior injuries can mean even more than the stereotypical machismo of noir and neo-noir. In Chinatown, Gittes does a lot of sneaking around and his injury is a direct result of it. Right before his nose is cut he’s asked “Do you know what happens to nosey fellas? They lose their noses.” It’s only appropriate that someone who sticks his nose too far in other people’s business would almost lose it. In Mad Detective (To, Wai, 2007) a schizophrenic detective can see other people’s personality traits portrayed as different characters for each trait. Early on in the film he gets bashed in the head and has a bandage wrapped around his forehead, symbolizing the fragile state of his mind as his ex-wife begins appearing as one of his imaginary characters. At the end of Blade Runner (Scott, 1982) replicant hunter Rick Deckard symbolically gets two of his fingers broken by replicant Roy Batty, one for each of his friends he’d killed. Symbolic wounds aren’t exclusively for lead noir characters either. In Mystic River (Eastwood, 2003), daughter of “reformed” gangster Jimmy Markum is killed. Dave Boyle, a friend who’s a prime suspect for the murder is often seen with dried blood remnants on his hands. This not only symbolizes his suspicious status to Jimmy but also his tattered past of being abducted and abused as a child.

Just as neo-noir injuries aren’t exclusively for anti-heroes, they also aren’t exclusive to the serious noir tone. It’s sometimes used as comedic relief with a character who’s clumsy or can’t catch a break. In Looper (Johnson, 2012) Kid Blue is a careless gunman who accidentally shot himself in the foot. He becomes obsessed with finding the main character and proving himself to his authorities, regaining whatever dignity he lost. The result is the main character escapes his grasp, and he accidentally shoots his other foot.

Every example I’ve given of external injuries has come from neo-noir films. It’s a far more common trait than it was in classic noir, and I think this demonstrates an important distinction between the two. In No Country For Old Men (Coen, 2007), protagonist Llewelyn Moss is pursued by a psychopath named Anton Chigurh. Throughout the course of the film, their chase results in multiple wounds to each of them and eventually ends with the death of Moss and the near death of Chigurh as he limps away. The story of these two is wrapped in more deaths of both enemies and friends from each side, a slow deterioration of people and morals—noir at it’s finest. Blade Runner also demonstrates this deterioration as Rick Deckard slowly gets beaten to a pulp in his pursuit of the much stronger replicants. It’s even suggested at the end of the film that Deckard himself is a replicant, which would mean that his life is deteriorating even more quickly than a normal human’s.

The deterioration of man/mankind isn’t exclusively addressed outside of classic noir, so what is unique about external injuries in neo-noir? In Looper, the main character leads a deteriorating lifestyle that’s heavily symbolized in his addiction to eye-drop drugs. When he’s on the run for his life, he finds himself out of the drugs and goes through withdrawal. When this physical deterioration is alleviated by the care of a farm girl, he finds himself caring for her and her son, thus alleviating his deterioration in crime life as well. While classic noir portrays the gross underbelly of human nature, neo-noir uses wounds, and healing of those wounds to offer a literal and symbolic escape from it. In Witness (Weir, 1985), anti-hero John Book is shot while uncovering corruption at his Philadelphia police station. He’s then taken into the care of an Amish family where they restore his physical wounds while also restoring him in a lifestyle that is anything but noir. Like the healing of physical wounds, neo-noir can offer a glance or a trip into bleakness rather than a descent—“near death” rather than “certain death.” Drive (Winding Refn, 2011) is a perfect example of this. The anti-hero (who is affectionately called “Driver”) could’ve sacrificially let the dangerous life he lived swallow him whole while those he cared about escaped to a new life. Instead, he chooses to live and let the wounds of his former life heal as he drives off to a new life with a gaping wound in his stomach.

A crane shot is named so after the cantilevered arm device on which the camera sits. The camera is on a platform attached to the mechanical arm which allows the camera to move around in any direction as well as up and down to various heights. Cranes have been used in films since Intolerance (Griffith, 1916), but their full potential wasn’t explored until Busby Berkeley began to use them in his musicals in the 1930’s. Berkeley wasknown for directing elaborate musical numbers with choreography that used geometric shapes and patterns highlighted by the almost unlimited movements of the crane ("Film Reference").

Musical number from "Gold Diggers from 1933" (Berkeley, 1933)

There are many reasons why a director would choose to use a crane shot. A crane's fluidity of movement and range of height can give an unusual﻿ omniscient perspective that is especially powerful if the audience knows something the character does not. A good example of this is the opening shot of Touch of Evil (Griffith, 1958). We can see that there is a bomb planted in the car that the couple gets into, and as the scene progresses the crane watches them from above as they move down the street. Even though the camera moves around within the space and the car isn't always the main subject of the shot, the audience is always aware of the presence of the bomb threat, but from a distant perspective that makes the inevitable explosion seem even more unavoidable ("Opening Crane Shot.").

Another famous crane shot is the opening scene of The Player (Altman, 1992). Inspired by Touch of Evil and arguably ﻿now more famous, Robert Altman’s film also opened on a long take of a crane shot that introduced the world of the film with a surreal omniscient perspective, but instead of suspense, it used the shot to develop a sense of the chaotic world of Hollywood "players."

Another common reason a film might use a crane shot is to make a scene larger-than-life or to give it a sense of grandeur. Busby Berkley’s crane shots created a unique sense of splendor by allowing the camera to capture his impressive choreographed numbers without having a lot of limitation on its mobility. Gone With the Wind (Fleming, 1939) has a famous crane shot that dramatically pulls out from Scarlett O’Hara to reveal the sheer amount of the wounded soldiers hurt from the battle.

Both the omniscient and dramatic purposes of using a crane shot play off of the fact that a moving camera shot is more visually engaging than a still camera. When your eyes look at a moving camera shot there is a visual phenomena known as parallaxing which occurs when foreground objects seem to be moving faster than objects in the background ("Film Reference"). Parallaxing gives the scene complexity and depth and draws the viewer in. The fluidity and range of motion afforded when using a crane make it better for parallaxing than a Steadicam or a dolly. Most cranes require the use of two separate people, one camera operator and one crane operator . Although very common on Hollywood sets, most of the heavy duty cranes can be very dangerous if used incorrectly. “After helicopters and car cameras, cranes around high voltage are a leading cause of death in the motion picture industry.” ("Crane Camera Movement.") Although most cranes can usually only be afforded by and should always only be operated by professionals, there are some small cranes available on the consumer level such as the Cobra Crane II (for camcorders under 25 lbs) and operated by a single person that cost somewhere between $300 and $800. ("Free Online Film School in 12 Filmmaking Tips.") Cranes are relatively simple machines, but the effect they can add to a film or a shot can make the world of the film seem that much larger-than-life and really draw in an audience in a way that no other shot can.

Over the years, we have witnessed many directors who found almost immediate initial commercial/critical success in directing feature films. Some of these include the best known directors such as Stanley Kubrick, Steven Spielberg, and James Cameron. Three more recent directors that I will be addressing in this article are M. Night Shyamalan, Neil Blomkamp, and Dan Gilroy.

You remember Shyamalan’s name from his ‘90s and early 2000s hits including The Sixth Sense (1999), Unbreakable (2000), and Signs (2002). While The Sixth Sense was not the director’s first directional effort, it was one of his very early features that had some critics touting that Shyamalan was one of the most promising directors to arise in Hollywood. It was not many years later, however, that Shyamalan’s work began to fall by the wayside, producing flops including Lady in the Water (2006), The Happening (2008), The Last Airbender (2010), and most recently the Will Smith vehicle After Earth (2013). It has been over a decade since Shyamalan has produced a commercially and critically successful film, with many critics begging to see the “old Shyamalan” that we saw in the late ‘90s.

The second recent example, Neil Blomkamp, known universally for his directional debut with the critically acclaimed sci-fi film, District 9 (2009), has since not been able to replicate his original success, as his next effort Elysium (2013) did not perform well commercially and was regarded as a significant “step down” by many critics who wanted to see a film as socially relevant and original as District 9. Blomkamp’s latest film, Chappie (2015), another sci-fi film dealing with emotions of artificial intelligence, was met with mostly negative reviews and underperformed at the box office. Some critics went as far as noting that they hope Blomkamp does not become another Shyamalan.

Blomkamp's directional debut, District 9 (2009), was praised for its originality, special effects, strong performances, and its social commentary on immigration and race in the modern world.

The third example is Dan Gilroy, who just made his directional debut last year with the noir crime drama/thriller Nightcrawler (2014). The film, with a relatively small budget of only $8.5 million, was universally praised by critics and enjoyed box office success, grossing over $10 million in its opening weekend and ending up grossing over $32 million (IMDB). The film was certainly a bold and stirring opening for the director, and we can only hope he will continue along this path.

Dan Gilroy's first directional effort, Nightcrawler (2014) was met with high praise for its stunning cinematography, sleek screenplay (written by Gilroy), strong performance from Gyllenhaal, and social commentary on the American work ethic.

All new directors want to make an initial good impression with audiences. This will help them gain a fan base and persuade viewers to see their next project—perhaps whether they are particularly interested in the subject matter or not. In a way, this is a method of pre-selling the film, as tickets will be sold and money will be earned by the studio based off the director’s previous success. However, this is a double-edged sword. By making a startling debut, viewers will undoubtedly (and naturally) expect that level of work with upcoming films. This of course puts a significant amount of pressure on the director to produce as thrilling and stimulating feature as they did in their debut. They can usually get away with something not quite up to par as a previous film, but if they churn out multiple flops, they will most likely start to lose their fan base and their reputation as a director will begin to crumble. This ends up being just one of the many challenges of being a film director.